Ballad of an Irishman
by AineRose
Summary: Angel explores his roots. At Jenny's funeral.


**Ballad of an Irishman**

**                                                **_by__ AineRose****_

****

He watched from the back of the church, clothed in darkness. He made no sound. The people in the back row never even noticed him behind them. He observed quietly; a cold, guilty tear tracing its way down his cheek.

The church was surprisingly full, surprising as Jenny had only been in Sunnydale a while. Teachers and pupils made up most of the flock, but there were several others there that Angel didn't recognise. Buffy sat in the front pew. Her face was set but Angel could see tears as she clasped onto Giles' hand, who looked nothing short of broken. Willow, Xander, Oz and Cordelia were behind them. Willow had her face buried deep into Oz's shoulder and her sobs were muffled. Oz, himself, was focusing on comforting his girlfriend. Cordelia was indifferent at first glance, but looking closer, Angel could see that her make-up was smeared. Xander looked like angry. Angel didn't blame him.

The guilt he felt at causing their pain tore at him deep down inside.

The funeral was postponed, he knew, because of him. And then postponed again until Buffy had returned. The body had long been buried, he knew, but the actual funeral itself had been put off. Jenny, it appeared, was a gypsy by blood, and not culture. She was Catholic by religion. 

So was he, once.

The churches were different now, bright and cheerful. It was so different to the way he had grown up. The Mass was said in Latin when he was a child, but he had learned his prayers in Irish- his native tongue. He grew up in a time when he was supposed to speak English, by order of the British Monarchy. He was twenty before he knew exactly what he was learning in 'school'. The priest was lenient enough where he lived, and even offered to teach his mother English. She had told him that she would never speak the language of another country; that she would use only the tongue of her native land. Thus, Angel had learned his prayers in Irish and Latin. Never English. Which was exactly what they were speaking now.

_"Hail Mary, full of grace._

_The Lord is with thee."_

Before, the men sat on one side of the church; the women on the other. That was just the way. Angel had distinct memories of breathing in the smell of his father and the other men- sweat, ale and hay. The churches were plain stone; the benches were hard and uncomfortable. The church was undecorated save for the large crucifix at the altar. This church was brightly decorated with posters and colours. The stained glass windows let in a painful amount of light, restricting Angel from moving.

Willow was Jewish, he remembered suddenly and looked at her. The light was reflecting off her hair as she rested her head on Oz's shoulder and stared sadly at the wreath of flowers at the bottom of the altar. Beside her, lips moved in prayer and belief. Hers were clamped shut, but Angel assumed she was saying a prayer in her head. As if she felt his gaze on her she turned and looked around. She didn't see him.

Angel hadn't been a church for a very long time. 

Angelus had killed Drusilla in a church, he reminded himself. He had taken a life in the House of God. 

_Thou shalt not kill._

The guilt had almost killed him, and he had promised to never step across the threshold of a church again. Until now.

Knowing that the Communion was over, and that people were beginning to stir in their seats, Angel racked his brain for a prayer he had known. He thought hard, until everyone had left. Finally, something came to him. He didn't recognise the prayer, but it flowed from his tongue as only a learnt-off-by-heart-so-that-I-can-get-my-supper prayer could. And he began to speak softly.

_"Ár nAthair, atá ar neamh,_

_Go naofar d'ainm,_

_Go dtagfar do ríocht,_

_Go ndéantar do thoil ar an talamh_

_Mar a dhéantar ar neamh._

_Ár n-arán laethúil tabhair dúinn inniu;_

_Agus maith dúinn ar bhfiacha,_

_Mar a mhaithimide dár bhféichiúna féin,_

_Agus ná lig sin I gcathú,_

_Ach saor sinn ó olc.___

_Amen"*_

The words released a forgotten language to him. And he made up his own prayers that day, praying to God _as Gaeilge_ and in every language he knew. 

He didn't leave until dark, and he placed a shamrock on the altar. He whispered to Jenny that he was sorry, and left quietly.

People reacted to death differently here, now. He remembered a time when a person was waked in the comfort of their own home. When all the friends and neighbours would gather into the one room and sang songs and celebrated. The sound of slurred voices singing off tune and fiddles, of _céilís _and _sean-nós,_ of young girls twirling barefooted til dawn confronted him in a breathtaking swirl of nostalgia.

Death had been normal then. A hundred years before the Great Famine, starvation was commonplace. Angel could remember going days without food. And when someone died, it was a time for celebration. 

He remembered leaving during the Famine. There was no food, the corpses that lined the streets were diseased and foul, and even the vampires left. He remembered going to England in a coffin ship. He nearly lost it there, as had Darla. They were surrounded by people for months, but these people were dying. Starvation got to him, too. He remembered docking in Liverpool, stepping outside and smelling the clean, fresh, blood that flowed through the streets. He remembered how much easier it was to kill an Englishman. How if he had a choice, even Angelus would remain Irish, and kill the British.

How much Angelus hated Giles, purely because he was English.

Sometimes Angel felt like that, but the difference between he and Angelus was that he would ignore it. Rivalries had been put to rest centuries ago. As he should have. But Angelus, the demon in him, would not let him rest.

Angel walked back to the mansion in darkness. He hadn't known he had been at the church for so long, but now it was late. He knew he should patrol, that Buffy would be in no fit state to take up the duties tonight but he didn't want to. Deciding that Faith could cover for tonight, he went home.

If they weren't send Jenny off properly, he'd have to do it. He may not remember how to sing in the sean-nós style, or dance to the fiddles, but he was sure there was a tin whistle somewhere in the mansion. If only he could remember that tune Aisling, his sister used to play…

End

* _Our Father, who art in Heaven_

_Hallowed be Thy name_

_Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, as earth as it is in Heaven._

_Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses,_

_As we forgive those who trespass against us._

_And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil._

_Amen _


End file.
